Text Me On Tuesday: All is Fair in Love and Texting ... (An Accidentally in Love Story Book 1)

by Whitney Dineen

  As luck would have it, that’s the exact moment the door opens, and I fall into the arms of the most devastatingly handsome man it has ever been my pleasure to lay eyes on—thick, dark hair that looks like not even one strand would dare to stray from where he wants it, moss-green eyes with flecks of gold and coffee-colored rims, and—oh, wow—a chiseled manly-man jawline peppered with two-day stubble. I gawk up at him with sheer disbelief. I’m so blinded by his gorgeousness; I’m temporarily rendered mute.

  With his arms around me, he calls over his shoulder, “Byron, you left one of your desperate strays in my en suite.”

  Two things. One, his British accent is so dreamy, it almost makes me want to swoon even though he just tossed out one of the worst insults anyone has thrown my way. And two, he smells so damn good, I want to rub myself all over his neck. Then, of course, there’s the other thing. I’m buck naked.

  Chapter Four

  Noel

  I stare at the woman pressed up against me, momentarily mesmerized by the feeling of her warm, wet curves. Her cheeks are flush with what I’m sure is embarrassment, but between the way her mouth is slightly open and her utter lack of clothes, she looks … well, she looks very much like I imagine she would in the throes of passion. My entire body must think that’s what’s happening because it has instantly and decidedly reacted in a way that is definitely not suitable for work.

  I should let go of her. Now.

  Okay … now. Seriously, arms.

  Naked beauty narrows her eyes at me. “Did you just call me a desperate stray?”

  Careful to maintain eye contact so she won’t think me a pervert (even though, inexplicably, my hands are settled on the curve of her hips and I have a rather obvious physical reaction to her that I hope she won’t notice, I say, “I assumed you were with Byron. He tends to collect young women in need of an ego boost.”

  Byron appears at my left and says, “Oh, she’s not mine. She’s the caterer.” He reaches past me with one hand and holds out a pair of black trousers. “Here you go, love.”

  She snatches them from Byron, then attempts to cover herself while backing away, leaving my shirt wet and my arms empty. “Do you mind?”

  “To be honest, I do,” I say, snapping out of the spell I was under and going right back into business mode. “I’m in rather a big rush this morning and I need to shave before my clients get here.”

  “I didn’t … that’s not what I meant.” She holds the black fabric against her naughty bits while I try not to notice the glorious sight of some very ample side boob, not to mention a shockingly nice view of her round bottom in the mirror behind her.

  I force my eyes away from her behind and back to her very lovely face. “Well, for the sake of efficiency, please say what you mean.”

  Through gritted teeth, she practically growls, “Please leave so I can get dressed.” Ah, the naked lady has a temper. I can work with that.

  My cheeks heat up and I nod. “Yes, of course. Obviously that’s what you meant.”

  Byron grabs me by the elbow and yanks me out of the room, shutting the door behind him. “Come on, before you get sued for harassment.”

  I spin on my heel and give him a ‘Well? WTF?’ look.

  “Right. About that,” he says, pointing to the door. “She came in lathered in perfume, but it’s all fixed now. Well, nearly.” He walks over to my closet where I keep a couple of spare outfits for all-nighters and slides open the door. “She’ll need a shirt.”

  Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I let out a long sigh. “How is this happening, today of all days?”

  He pulls a white button-up off its hanger and strides in the direction of the en suite, avoiding eye contact. “Who’s to say why life unfolds the way it does? Fate? God? The universe?”

  Folding my arms across my damp chest, I say, “You, forgetting to tell the caterers not to wear any scents?”

  Glaring back at me, he hisses, “Are you honestly going to complain? She is lovely and that was the most action you’ve seen in months.”

  Before I can object, he gives the bathroom door three sharp raps. “Aimée, hon. I have a shirt for you. And don’t worry, it’s me Byron, not my creepy boss.”

  The lock clicks and the door opens a crack. She sticks her arm out and whispers, “Is he still here?”

  Byron leans in and I hear him mutter something that sounds a lot like “unfortunately” before he says, “My god, those pants are tight on you. Can you even breathe?”

  Her response isn’t audible in spite of the fact that I’m straining my ears. A second later, Byron disappears into the room and locks the door, leaving me waiting to use my loo—emphasis on the my—while he attends to the bloody caterer. I tap my foot impatiently, torn between complete irritation and jealousy that my brother is in there instead of me. There are some serious benefits to being Byron—the most obvious is having an all-access pass to women in various states of undress. After a minute, I decide I might as well sit down and look over the presentation again, even though I know there is literally nothing we can add at this point. And even if there were anything that could be improved upon, I’m not exactly capable of coming up with it whilst my brain is so lacking in blood.

  I take a deep breath and tell my heart to slow down so I can actually think, but the only thing I end up doing is reliving the moment over again. Her face floods my mind, followed quickly by her soft, feminine form. Good god, she’s got curves on curves—the kind a man could lose himself in for days on end.

  Stop that, you idiot! You’ve got more pressing matters at hand than daydreaming about pressing yourself up against her…Ack! I can’t seem to shut this off.

  Honestly, the timing could not be worse. Tapping my fingers restlessly on my chin, I resolve to push all thoughts of her aside and get my head back in the game. If ever there was a time to stay focused, it is right bloody now.

  Finally, the two of them emerge, Byron first, followed by the caterer, who is dressed in extremely tight pants. On top she’s wearing my favorite Fred Perry dress shirt that has been knotted at the front to keep her from drowning in it. Sexy, much?

  She gives me a very professional, if not embarrassed smile, and says, “I’m Aimée Tompkins, owner of Nibbles and Noshes.” She reaches out her right hand for me to shake.

  Normally I pride myself on being a gentleman. My instinct is to stand and greet her properly, holding out my hand and asking her if she’s all right. But since I’m still in an uncomfortable way, I stay firmly seated behind my desk. Giving her a nod, I do my best not to look interested. “It’s imperative that everything go off without a hitch today, Ms. Tompkins. I trust that there won’t be any more … issues.”

  Her cheeks turn red and her eyes turn down to the carpet. “Yes, of course. I’m very sorry about what happened. That’s never … I haven’t … I don’t normally …” Her voice trails off and I have to fight the urge to get up and comfort her. I’m afraid I’m still not ready to move yet.

  I give Byron an urgent head nod in her direction. He glares at me, then seems to realize why I’m not behaving like a gentleman and standing up. He mouths, “Oh, gotcha,” then loops his arm through hers. “Don’t give it a second thought, Aimée. It’s already forgotten.” He turns to me. “Isn’t it, boss?”

  “Wiped from my memory,” I lie. “Now if you would excuse me, I really do need some privacy and I’m sure you both have much to do.”

  Chapter Five

  Aimée

  Is it possible to die from shame? Because if so, I might be experiencing my last few moments on earth. I had to dampen Cindy’s pants so they could stretch enough for me to get them on. It didn’t work, so I had to run them under the faucet to get them totally wet. That barely worked. Now I’m standing in front of the man who could possibly hold my financial freedom in his hands and am being dismissed like I’m—what did he call me, a desperate stray?

  Noel Fitzwilliam is a douche. I’m not one to throw vulgar term
s around lightly, but this man is going out of his way to make me feel two inches tall. He deserves every nasty word I can come up with, and then some. I’ll have to consult Teisha for more. She’s a veritable word wizard when she wants to be.

  As Byron leads me out of the lion’s den to the kitchen, I trip on Cindy’s pant legs four times. “Maybe Cindy has some heels we can borrow,” Byron suggests, looking concerned for my safety.

  Please, no! I want nothing more from that evil woman with the size two pants. As it stands, she would be off my Christmas card list if she’d been a nice person, and you know, I actually send Christmas cards. “I’ve got heels in my purse,” I tell him while hiking up the pant legs like they’re a ball gown and I’m about to drop into a deep curtsey.

  Byron’s last words after showing me the kitchen are, “Let me know if you need anything. Anything. I’ll be at my desk in front of Mr. Fitzwilliam’s office.” He looks down at me with such compassion and kindness, I feel like the desperate stray I was moments ago accused of being.

  Teisha turns around to greet me and drops the stack of trays in her hands—luckily, they’re empty. “Honey,” she looks me up and down. “You’re going to get a nasty yeast infection wearing pants that tight.”

  My eyes fill with tears. Not because of the truth she just shot me, but because this day is going so badly, and I need it to go so well. Running toward me, my friend pulls me into her arms and holds on tight. “You got this, girl. Come on, buck up. We’ll figure out something together.”

  With her hands on my upper arms, she pushes me away from her and announces, “I’d bet you a week of tips that skinny-assed Cindy couldn’t even fit into those pants.”

  “You think she purposely gave me tiny pants?” What would be the point?

  With her eyebrow quirked in a question mark, Teisha answers, “I don’t know what her motivation would have been, but she’s so cold she could freeze hot lava just by walking by it. I wouldn’t put anything past that one.”

  “How’s everything going in here?” I ask, desperately needing not to think about the wet pants digging into my lady business.

  “Everything is ready to be put on the trays and taken out. I set up a buffet and drink station in the conference room. I figure these corporate types aren’t going to want to pass stuff around the table like they’re having Sunday dinner at home.”

  I nod my head in agreement while pulling the heels out of my bag. Maybe an additional four inches will help me feel like the warrior I need to be today, as well as keeping me from doing a header into someone important. I need this tripping to stop.

  After spotting a chair in the corner, I sit down to switch out my footwear. Cindy’s pants respond to the shifting junk in my trunk and wait for it, the crotch totally gives way. Teisha stares at me like she’s witnessing a particularly horrific car accident. “No! What more can happen to you today?” I hope to God she didn’t just challenge the universe and hordes of evil spirits are lining up to have a go at me.

  Standing up, I offer, “The good news is they’re a lot more comfortable now.”

  “The bad news is your hooch is hanging out.”

  I look down and sure enough my pink peekaboo undies that I bought on clearance are showing. “What in the fresh hell do I do now?” I demand.

  Teisha takes off her apron and hands it to me, “Put this on.”

  Following her orders, I ask, “What about my butt?”

  She grabs my apron off the table and throws the loop over my head so that it’s covering my backside. I must look like I’m wearing a sandwich board.

  “Perfect!” my friend declares.

  “Don’t you think people are going to wonder why I’m wearing two aprons and you aren’t wearing any?”

  “Psh,” she releases her breath like a leaky tire. “I highly doubt these folks are even going to see us. We’re just the background. But if you’re worried, you can stand by the buffet and serve. I’ll do all the wandering around refilling drinks and bussing the dirty dishes.”

  “Thanks, Teish,” I tell her, feeling all kinds of love. “You’re the best friend a girl could have.”

  “Damn straight, I am! Now get those shoes on and help me get the food ready.”

  Turns out Cindy’s pants are still too long for me with my heels. Teisha notices and walks out the door shaking her head. When she comes back, she’s holding a stapler. “Sit down,” she orders.

  “You can’t staple the hem! You’ll ruin the pants.”

  “Says the woman who just added an air conditioning feature to the booty.”

  She’s got a point. I hold out one leg at a time while T hems the trousers. I’m going to have to offer to pay Cindy back for these things and I know for a fact she didn’t buy them at Filene’s Basement. The tag said Prada which means replacing them will take all my profits from this lunch, if not more.

  By the time I’m finally put together—not unlike Frankenstein’s monster—it’s go-time. Teisha and I get all the food out and are standing in the corner of the conference room with only seconds to spare before the suits come in.

  Noel Fitzwilliam strides in, so full of confidence and style, he looks better than every single man that’s ever been cast on The Bachelor put together. I hate myself for the moment of appreciation I send his way. He may be the most gorgeous male specimen on the planet, but he’s also mean and arrogant and so full of himself he doesn’t deserve my admiration.

  Yet not an hour ago I was naked in his arms. BIG sigh.

  With his hand on the shoulder of an older gentlemen, Noel says, “We have quite a pitch for you today, Walter. I hope you brought your checkbook.” The two enjoy a manly chuckle while Noel shoots me a look of pure condescension. If I didn’t need this job so much, I’d start firing my fancy baguettes at him like rockets.

  Cindy walks in next looking as smug as the viper she is. She doesn’t have eyes for anyone but Noel. I could totally see the two of them together. They deserve each other. They would make cruel but ridiculously gorgeous babies who would grow up to be school bullies.

  Once everyone is seated at the conference table, Byron comes in and announces, “Our lovely caterers will serve lunch as soon as you’re ready.”

  Noel smiles at him—is it me or do they kind of look alike?—before saying, “Any time, Byron.”

  Byron hurries over to us. “Okay, girls, you’re on. Give them all a little bit of everything.”

  “I thought we were serving buffet-style,” I say, feeling tentacles of raw panic start to grip my insides.

  “No, Mr. Fitzwilliam likes to give his clients five-star treatment. Start with the older man and the two people on either side of him, and then Mr. Fitzwilliam. There’s no particular order for everyone else.”

  Teisha and I immediately start plating lunch while I whisper under my breath, “So much for your brilliant plan that would allow me to keep my dignity.”

  “You stay on the side of the room by the window and I’ll take the side with the old guy. That way you can sidestep and look less conspicuous.”

  While I appreciate her suggestion, I can’t imagine I’m going to get through this lunch without one or two people concerned for my sanity. It’s true that most people don’t pay any attention to catering staff, but that’s only when they look normal. When you look like you should be standing on a street corner advertising BOGO corn dogs, it’s another story entirely.

  After Teisha carries the first three plates out, I grab my one to serve the boss man. I might just abbreviate that to the big BM for expediency sake. Noel doesn’t even look at me when I serve his lunch, the stuck-up dandy. So much for any chemistry I might have felt while enfolded in his big strong arms. I will never say this out loud, but in my deepest darkest vault of secrets, it will go down as one of the most erotic moments I’ve ever experienced.

  “Ms. Tompkins, are you unwell?”

  Noel’s voice startles me out of the memory I was apparently reliving publicly.
The heat of embarrassment practically devours my face. Instead of answering him, I snap to attention and hurry over to the buffet to get more plates.

  Once lunch is served, Teisha and I stand back near the buffet table and watch as the food disappears. Murmurs of “delicious,” and “did you try the …?” are heard around the room, and I grin over at T, momentarily forgetting my double aprons and my stapled, soaked pants. (Not one bite is left on a plate, not even Cindy’s.)

  The only person who doesn’t seem to comment on the food is Noel, who’s recently moved so he’s sitting next to the older gentleman he walked in with. He’s far too absorbed in his conversation to notice anything else. I suddenly realize I’m on pins and needles waiting for him to give me a nod or a smile or say something nice about the food. I shouldn’t care what a total jerk like him thinks, but since he is the man in charge, it would at least give me a hint as to whether he might turn into a repeat client.

  When the moment is right, Teisha and I clear the plates and napkins. When I take BM’s plate, he looks up at me. For a brief second, he smiles and my heart pounds a little, expecting a compliment. Instead, he says, “Please put the cookies on the table, then make your way out.”

  A sting of humiliation hits me as I wipe the hopeful grin off my face. I’m the help and nothing more. I replace the impulse to give him the finger with a quick nod, then Teisha and I do as we’ve been told.

  I’m just about at the door, my arms loaded with a plastic bin of dirty dishes, when Noel signals for me to come back.

  I approach him like I’m sneaking up on a sleeping dragon—with extreme caution. “Ms. Tompkins,” he says. “Please don’t leave until I have a chance to speak to you.”

  Oh. My. God. I can just imagine what kind of horrible things he’s going to say to me. Words like, unprofessional, incompetent, and inept fill my head like a swarm of killer bees. There is no way. No. Way. I’m going to wait around and take whatever abuse he has in store. No, sir. I’m going to grab my check from Byron and beat it out of here like I just knocked over a bank and the police are after me.